The Longest Four Minutes
by cactusnell
Summary: During his abbreviated exile, Sherlock contemplates the life choices which have brought him to this end. Eventual Sherlolly, a bit angsty but a happy ending. Several characters mentioned, but do not appear.


Common wisdom tells us that, when faced with your rather imminent demise, your life will flash before your eyes as you relive past events, providing one last taste of that which you are about to be denied. But Sherlock Holmes, sitting on a small private jet on a runway somewhere in southern England, was not so entertained. There was no speeded up version of his exploits, no scenes of derring do, no smug, self-satisfied sense of the rightness of his choices, nor satisfaction with their outcome. Just regret, and loneliness, and a sense of futility as he looked back over events of the past few days.

He was leaving England, never to return. He was leaving his friends, for now, he had to admit, at last, that he did have friends. They had been told that he was going on an extended mission, and for reasons of national security, they were to be kept in the dark. DI Greg Lestrade had grunted when told this, possibly suspicious about the circumstances, but had merely nodded, and shook his hand. This was the man who had given him a reason to live so many years before. He had seen something in the drugged up disaster so fresh out of uni and ready to give up on the world. He had collected him from an assortment of drug dens, tempting him with case after case once he had recognized his talents. He had delivered him into his brother Mycroft's hands, on several occasions, to commitment to rehab programs, until one, at last, had struck a chord with the detective. Or perhaps the young man had simply, with that huge intellect of his, reasoned that enough was enough. In any event, DI Greg Lestrade had helped to keep him alive until he reached that conclusion., and Sherlock had repaid him over the years with disparaging remarks about his skills, his career choice, and his romantic endeavors, all the while pretending that he couldn't even be bothered to remember his first name. Greg knew something was wrong when Sherlock, shaking his hand in farewell, simply said, "Goodbye, Greg."

Mrs. Hudson was another matter, and almost another mother. They had been two broken people a few years ago. Martha was an old friend of his mother's whom he hadn't seen in years. Martha had led a colorful life, dancing in varying degrees of dress and undress, running with a not too savory crowd, seemingly incapable of seeing the evil in anyone. She had gotten herself in a bit of a mess in Florida, trapped into a now loveless marriage to a drug lord, with divorce not an option, given all she knew about his operation. Violet Holmes had sent her younger son to America to bring her home. When he had seen her, he could not believe the change. She was no longer the bright, rather naughty woman who made his mother laugh, and his father blush. She seemed almost broken, and when he found out who had broken her, he did his utmost to see him punished. Martha Hudson would have settled for a severe beating for her miscreant husband, and a quick trip back to her homeland for herself. But Sherlock knew that she would never be completely safe while the drug lord lived. It was simply a matter of coincidence, and convenience, that Florida was one of the States which still had the death penalty on the books, and no compunction about using it. Martha Hudson had returned to England a widow, with a healthy income, a house in central London, and a seemingly permanent tenant who she loved like a son. Upon hearing that he would be gone for months, she broke into sobs, and promised to keep his flat just as he had left it.

Sherlock had said goodbye to his parents the evening before his flight. Mycroft had arranged a visit to their cottage for the day. They had only been informed that he would be going away on a mission for a few months. Papa had clapped his hand on his shoulder, and shaken his hand, then pulled him in for a hug, while Mummy looked on with growing apprehension. His mother then hugged him, only to find her fears confirmed when he, rather uncharacteristically, hugged her back, wrapping his long arms around her shorter frame and hanging on for just a second too long. By the time he released her, she knew that she would not be seeing him again. All she managed to get out was a muffled sob, and, "Oh, Will!", before he was gone, disappearing into the large black car Mycroft had sent for him.

He loved his parents dearly, though he seldom seemed to give evidence of the fact. Truth be told, since his adolescent years, and his descent into his addiction, he had tried to avoid them, not wanting to see the disappointment in their eyes. If he had chosen to look more closely, of course, he would have seen their love far outshining any disappointment, and would perhaps have come to realize that the disillusion had he seen in their eyes was only reflected from his own. By the time he had overcome his demons, he had settled into a life in which he tended to ignore sentimentality, and eschew emotion, convincing himself that this alone was what protected him from once again succumbing to those demons.

But he hadn't said goodbye to Dr. Molly Hooper. He hadn't even seen, or spoken to her, in over three months. The detective had been too completely involved in the Magnussen case to think about much else, to allow for any distraction. And, he had to admit, if only to himself, Molly was, indeed, a distraction. He rubbed his cheek as he recalled the last time he had seen her. He had failed a drug test, and could see the hurt in her eyes. She had slapped him, multiple times. He knew there was more pain to come when she found about his "relationship" with Janine. And he couldn't bear to see the hurt, so he decided to replace it with anger, making a disparaging remark about her broken engagement. And then, he was shot, and spent weeks recuperating. She hadn't visited, and he hadn't asked her to. The further away from this business she was, the better, he reasoned. But now, he was finding out, reason had very little to do with his feelings for Molly Hooper. Mycroft would explain his absence to her, if and when she asked him to.

Three people had come to see him off on his last journey, only one of them knowing that he would never return. He had taken his leave of John and Mary on the tarmac. They were still unaware of the finality of that farewell. Six months, was his brother's estimate of his life expectancy. He would never return. This was a true exile, designed to end only in his death. And, to his great surprise, Sherlock Holmes found that he was not so amenable to going quietly into that good night. He had always thought of himself as a bit on the self-destructive side, but now, it seems, when it came right down to it, he was anything but.

Mycroft Holmes keep his distance as his little brother took his leave of his best friend and that friend's ex-assassin wife. Sherlock had felt his brother's eyes on him, drinking him in as if trying to commit every movement, every look, every aspect of the younger man to memory. Mycroft Holmes had once, in speaking to his younger brother, referred to John Watson, as "the brother you always wanted to have." He had tried to achieve a look of haughty detachment as he made the remark, but even then Sherlock had seen the flicker of hurt in his eyes before the older man managed to hide it. He had considered the man overbearing when he gave him advice, controlling when he dragged him from the streets into rehab, dictatorial when he forced him into taking jobs, and oppressively interested in his private life. But, despite the fact that there had been years on end when they hadn't gotten on at all, Sherlock knew that it was mostly his own fault. He resented Mycroft, not so much for interfering, but because Sherlock himself knew that he required such interference. Mycroft's over attentiveness was a harsh reminder of his own failings. And now he regretted those failings, and the brother they had cost him.

Sherlock looked out the small window as the green earth dropped slowly away. What would he have changed? If he hadn't let John Watson into his life, this all would have ended much differently. But he had, and that had altered the course of that life. He had put a bullet in a man's head to keep Mary Watson safe. The woman who had, previously, put a bullet in him. She had been willing to risk his life in order to preserve her happiness, and he had been ready to give his life to preserve John's. All because he had let someone into his life. But, perhaps John, through no fault of his own, was the wrong someone.

In a moment of pure clarity, it came to him. It should have been Molly! He should have smiled at her more, flirted a bit when he didn't actually need something from her. He should have taken her out for coffee. For dinner. For so much more. He had known Molly Hooper longer than John, almost as long as Greg Lestrade. It would have been so much easier to make Molly happy. It would have required no sacrifice, no bullet to somebody's head. All he had had to do was give in, not fight the attraction, the pull of smile, the appeal of her brain and the allure of her body. He could have made her happy simply by loving her, as he knew she would have made him. He should have moved her into Baker Street, where they could have experimented both in and out of the bedroom, raising one or two of the results of such experimentation to adulthood before retiring to the country to raise bees. He found himself smiling, thinking about what could have been even as it fell way as quickly as the ground from beneath the plane. It was just at that moment that an attendant approached him with a call from his Mycroft..

Sherlock joined his brother in the backseat of the waiting car, and Mycroft played the improbable video feed of a grinning Moriarty asking the world if it missed him. Sherlock studied the film before turning to study the man next to him. He could tell from the look on his brother's face that something was up, and he believed he knew what that was. "If your superiors find out, brother mine, it will be the two of us heading for Eastern Europe."

"Then they must never find out, little brother, as the climate in the Balkans does not agree with me."

"Why did you do it?" Sherlock asked, but he knew the answer. His brother was merely looking after him, as he always had.

"You know why, Sherlock. And, additionally, I made a promise to 'fix it' to someone. Someone very insistent, and persistent, and just a bit frightening, when it comes right down to it…"

"Mummy."

"No, not Mummy, brother. Mummy just assumed I would do all in my power to deal with the situation. But I do see your mistake, as I never noticed it before myself, but Dr. Hooper does share many of Mummy's qualities."

"Molly?"

"Yes. She's waiting for you at her flat. I suggest you go see her before you join John and his lovely but lethal wife at Baker Street, where I suggested they wait for your return, and where you must do your best to convince them, and everyone else, that you are working on this newest threat."

"Thank you, Mycroft. That is an excellent suggestion."

"And, Sherlock, much as I know you dislike my interference, may I suggest that you alter your priorities slightly in this new life?"

"Mycroft, given the happy result of you current 'interference' in my life, I feel I must give you carte blanche in the future. I may even name a child after you!"

"I suggest you take that up with Dr. Hooper, Sherlock, as she may have other thoughts on procreation in general and names in particular. She wasn't especially that happy you were leaving without saying goodbye."

"Then I shall have to make this 'hello' particularly memorable, Mycroft," the reborn detective said with a smile and a wink, determined to let the right one in at last.


End file.
